


Faith falls hard on the shoulders

by thatskyquill



Series: The Exorcist and the Faithful [1]
Category: Faith (Airdorf Video Game), The Exorcist (1973)
Genre: (damien karras is a walking spoiler of this fic), (idk what else to add), (pretty mental stuff), (you'll know why when you read it), Gen, Mental Anguish, Paranormal, Survivor Guilt, paranormal occurrence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:41:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23340379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatskyquill/pseuds/thatskyquill
Summary: Before John has made the fateful revisitation on September 21, 1987, he took a tour in a famed location of Georgetown to cope with his sorrows. He was alone, or was he?
Series: The Exorcist and the Faithful [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1787290
Kudos: 10





	Faith falls hard on the shoulders

The stairs. The red-bricked house. The gates. Georgetown. They say it is a popular attraction for newcomers, and John just happened to be one of them. He just wanted a look, a hype, a simple thrill as a reminder of the way his heartbeat skyrocketed back in a different residence but all the same. It was still not so easily forgotten, always gnawing, haunting him with mysteries that will never be solved even by this similar tragedy. He was here for … nothing else. No answers to hope for. Just a nightly walk for fresh air. Or a sympathy from an aged place.

And there awaited no answers and kindness as he arrived at the gates. The air was cold and unforgiving. His salvation only came from their shared trauma now, just him and this humanless place, but even that was threatened by a major difference: his superior died and he survived, while both priests in the legend perished. With that in mind his stare drifted to the unlit stairs, harder to see in the dark. Maybe he could have done more, but he didn’t. The only stairs were inside. There was nowhere else to jump.

The stairs beside the red-bricked house blurred, obstructed by smoke — No, there was no smoke. He just needed sleep. He couldn’t do that right now, not with the mysteries. With a huge exhale out of his lungs, which sounded so angry, so despaired, and so lost, he turned around and leaned his back on the gates’ metallic bars. They offered no comfort, except for his back which endured a long day of walking. Their tragedy has concluded to an end. What should he do with his? Was there a way? As if nature wanted to punish him further, the air grew colder and colder, not enough for danger of frostbite, but enough that a shiver snaked down his spine and quivered his shoulders, and minuscule hair on the back of his neck stood upright on end.

Were those nonexistent whisperings a sign of needing sleep as well?


End file.
